Budding Flower, Ray of Hope
by Moosashi
Summary: Marth's arrival in Askr brings with it unprecedented fanfare. Seeking respite if only for a day, he stumbles into a friendship that gives him a place to breathe, a place to think; for the world of Askr is not what it seems, and if he and the others are to return home, answers must be sought and wills tempered beyond that of the strongest steel.
1. Prologue

**A.N.** Hello, Fire Emblem fanbase! Taking my first shot at writing for this series, and what better way to start than with one's favorite characters from it, eh? Here we will explore some character dynamics with a twist on the way the _Fire Emblem: Heroes_ world works.

…Is it just me, or does anyone else always hear the title of that game in Sharena's shouting voice? Anyways, enjoy, and see ya at the bottom!

* * *

**~ Prologue ~**

_The ray that nurtures the flower is static, indifferent in its course to shine on all. But when the flower blooms, shows its resplendent beauty through myriads of colors,  
__perhaps then the ray will desire to shine brighter yet._

* * *

Marth had tired of spars for the day. Or rather for the week. No, for the month. Yes, the month.

Day after day he'd fought in practice bouts. Every day it seemed a new brave soul jumped at the chance to challenge him. Every day brave souls he had defeated jumped at the chance to try once more. Again and again, multiple times a day, to the point a line could be formed. And perhaps he really should take Anna's idea of having people make appointments to spar with him, however ridiculous it may be. Although he could do without that part about putting a cost on it.

Their desire to fight against one with such lofty a title as Hero King is understandable, despite his own rebuttal that he's nobody special. But there were so many other strong warriors around. They were the real heroes: Chrom, Exalt of Ylisse and his daughter Lucina, both holders of the sword and brand he carried; Ephraim and Eirika, twins whose teamwork could never be overcome; Ryoma of Hoshido, Hector and Lyndis, Alm, Celica…

"But then," he breathes in the crisp air of a spring morning, "thinking of such will not do." After all, today is about escaping the tiring cycle that began the day he stepped from the light that brought him here.

A new path he treads, having ditched the dirt road rather quickly just knowing he would run into someone otherwise. Today would be his day. Nothing but Marth, nature, and whims. The sword at his side would not be drawn. He would not entertain any wide-eyed soul prodding for tales of his supposed heroics. And on no account would he even consider the idea of a spar.

He pushes through brush that thickens along the narrow trail and stumbles into a small clearing full of color. Lavenders and crimsons, golds and whites, he recoils in squint as his eyes adjust. Such bright flowers, bathing in the sun's rays; it feels as if a painting. Lavish. Otherworldly. Peaceful.

In he breathes the scents. Yes. He's found what he needs. Just one day and he could return to granting the wishes of his newfound allies. To serving and guiding them. Or maybe just an hour. Indeed, an hour of such peaceful air and soothing tune, and he'd be as right as the rain that helps these flowers grow.

…Tune?

He peers through the myriad of colors until he spots a black bundle hunched across the way. Blonde hair streaked by lavender bobs with her picking of flowers, and the tune she hums brings to mind an ocean beneath quilted gray sky.

_Snap_ of twig beneath his boot whirls her attention his way, amethyst gaze widening and hum ceasing. Her smile makes all else seem dim. "Hi!"

He gives a slight nod. "Hello."

"Whatcha' doin' out here?"

"Apologies if I've disturbed you. I'm taking a stroll is all."

She giggles. "Oh, don't mind me! I'm just picking flowers."

"They're all very lovely," he says with a smile. "Then, I'll be off."

"Sure! Be safe!"

Truly refreshing. Someone not from the Order of Heroes. One who doesn't know him, who doesn't preach of greatness surely not his own. What a wonderful break it would be.

"Oh my gosh, wait!"

He looks over a shoulder while turning to face her. "Yes?"

She rises while brushing plant pickings from her dress. "Are you Marth?" Her eyes light up; his dull. "Like, _the_ Marth? The one everyone keeps talking about?"

His hand instinctively rests on the pommel he never wanted to touch today. "…I am. Might I ask how it is you know me?"

She claps and holds her hands together beneath a smile somehow brightening. "Wow, you are! That's so amazing! I always wanted to meet you. Everyone says you're a real hero. They even say you're the king of heroes!"

"I—"

"You seemed so busy though and I never got a chance." Her sudden bounding up to him has him staggering back. A most eccentric mix of curiosity and cheeriness studies him as she leans in, hands folded behind her. "Corrin tells me you even beat him in battle. But Leo says you kinda just whooped him."

"Yes, I…I have sparred and bested Corrin twice. Forgive my asking, but are you with the Order?" Black boots laced with pink ribbon that reach the thighs, a matching dress and large ribbon at the collar, and hair so abundant and meticulously styled into enormous pigtails—there are a lot of people who dress peculiarly in the Order, but he's certain he'd not seen nor would be able to forget one so…cute? A puzzle all its own, the word he searches for.

She stumbles back, bites her lip and bows. "I'm sorry! Manners, yes! I'm Elise." Fists to hips, she sticks out her chest. "Yeah, I'm a hero too. Pretty cool, huh?"

The chuckle he gives sounds foreign to him, and he wonders when the last time he had one was. "That it is, Elise. You are surely a fine hero with such a name."

She hums her confusion, but lets it go with a giggle. "I'm really glad I got to meet you. You're exactly who I thought you'd be."

"I'm not sure I follow."

She lifts her basket of flowers and holds out a white one. "Easygoing and friendly. I mean, that you're letting me call you just Marth says a lot. I hate it when people always call me Princess Elise, and they get all formal and stuff."

Nodding, he takes and fits the flower near his brooch. "I know the feeling well. Thank you, Elise."

"Sure thing! Oh, I should probably be getting back now. They'll get grumpy if I'm gone too long."

He steps aside, gestures, "Of course. Don't let me keep you," and follows her with a smile until she vanishes into the trees. Eyes closed and face to the sun, he breathes in the wonderful scents and carries on.

* * *

**A.N.** We'll be following Marth and his experiences in Askr through the majority of this story. It'll be a different take than the game itself, though does still include major plot points from it. Thanks for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed!

And if anyone cares to follow developments outside chapter updates, feel free to check out the profile page and hit me up on Twitter. Cheers!


	2. World Full of Strangers - 1

**A.N.** Get hype for some ACTION! But before that, a word from everyone's favorite butler of the series.

* * *

Part I

**~ World Full of Strangers ~**

**1**

* * *

It had been a refreshing day and a peaceful night—come and gone in nearly the blink of an eye, much like Marth's own being shielded from sun through hastily parted curtains. A man's silver ponytail swings with his abrupt turning, and continues to bob as he goes about organizing the already organized room.

Marth latches his blade to belt and stifles a sigh. He wears his smile weakly. "Though I appreciate the gesture, you needn't take time from your duties to tend to me."

"Ah yes," the man lets out with the same briskness of his work. "You royals lately seem to have a qualm with being served." He swipes across a shelf with a rag, fixes one of the crooked books, and adjusts the chair at the desk afront it to be centered. "But my liege has spoken, and tend to you I shall. Any misgivings about my liege's hospitality would prove most unpleasant to him. If you would refrain from speaking such…"

The sigh Marth stifled comes out fully. "I understand."

"Very good." The man turns and in two quick motions both pulls taut the rag and folds it, stuffing it to hang from his pocket. He fixes his collar. "My liege has taken a fancy to you. Heaven where his head must be only knows why. Despite your skill with the blade, you appear awfully…"

There's a shared silence before Marth speaks. "Jakob, is it?" The man simply closes his eyes and breathes. "To be honest, I agree with you." His eyes open. "All these wondrous individuals speak of me as if I'm something more than just a man, and it weighs on me greatly. I'll admit I've seen many a battle, and have helped quell a great conflict in my world, but it feels almost as if they worship me. There seriously cannot be a justifiable cause for such."

"Then perhaps take solace knowing your name is unheard of in our lands." The man bows. "Allow me to apologize on behalf of my liege. He's been taken by the flow of the others, and has been ever enthusiastic to talk with and spar all these…_wondrous individuals_, as you say."

Marth runs a hand through his hair. "Thank you. And I apologize for burdening you with this. Your liege Corrin has certainly been—"

"_Prince_…Corrin."

Hand scrunches hair as Marth mouths the title. "A slip of the tongue. Forgive me."

"You would do well not to err as such today. My liege awaits you with that…esteemed Hoshidan who claims they're brothers."

"Ah, yes. King Ryoma. Might you be able to tell me about him?"

Jakob pauses, however briefly. "It appears you truly have trouble recalling stations." A quiet sigh, and Jakob resumes his tidying of the room, starting with flattening the single wrinkle left from Marth's making of the bed. "An honorable man, and as fierce as they come. His values are bound by a level of stubbornness matched only by Prince Xander of Nohr. If I may, just a tidbit of advice." He meets the prince's gaze with but one eye as he looks over a shoulder. "Should you hold back even a modicum, you'll find yourself with naught but the swiftest of defeats."

Marth closes his eyes. Sternum rising from lungs slowly filling, he nods.

* * *

Ryoma presses his foot to the ground. "Prince Marth, you'll excuse this sudden request, I hope." Arms uncrossing, one hand rests atop the hilt of his katana. "After I heard you were lead on tomorrow's mission, I simply had to see for myself if my dear brother would be in the care of a capable leader."

Falchion brandishes to the song of sheath and blade, its hum reverberating and melding into the breeze whisking over fields of sprawling green. "I assure you that I'll do my utmost to keep him from harm, but if this eases your mind, think nothing of it."

The samurai's hand tightens around the hilt, plates of gauntlet clinking and leather of glove shrilling. "Thoughtful and mature, despite your youth. I know better, but cannot help but feel almost belittled at your words. So if you would show me…!" Torn from sheath in a flash and resounding crash of the lightning swarming along the blade, Raijinto's awakening disrupts the atmosphere and blows winds outward, despite the calm hold of its wielder joining the grip of the blade with his other hand.

Those watching have taken to raising hands to block wind from eyes. Whatever words were to be exchanged fell in tandem with the samurai's foot, crushing the ground and kicking up dirt in the first and only footfall he needed to reach full speed.

It comes from above, the opening swing. The clash of legendary blades meeting for the first time seems deafening, so much that Marth almost doesn't hear his own grunt as his muscles strain, hand joins the broadside of sword, and feet skid back. Falchion trembles and in meeting the opponent's steadfast gaze, so too does its wielder. With exertion spent simply to break away from the deadlock, he knows: victory will not be found in a prolonged struggle. He turns completely to avoid a swing, shuffles around a second, uses minimal contact with sword to deflect another, and leaps away from the blade tracing a wide arc.

Marth balances himself with a hand to the ground as his feet skid from landing.

No quarter.

Blade crashes onto and lightning bursts into where he just stood, the crackling current frizzling in its short life crawling the ground. Marth rushes and blades meet, meet, meet, and in the fourth—a feint; jaw clenches as currents spring up his arm from his sword trailing the flat of Raijinto. The mere flicker of his opponent's eyes brings the prince foresight, and in lifting and spiraling at the raising of Raijinto in attempt to deflect, he secures the opening with a vicious swipe as he crouches and strikes from low—and receives a brutal kick to the chest in return.

In his tumbling back, the prince sees the sky and earth swap places many times until it ends with him flat on his back, cape riddled with dirt draped over his face. He pulls it off to see the currents ensnaring Raijinto disperse before its wielder sheathes it and kneels, hand over chest. "That just now…"

Marth sits up, rises to his feet, and returns Falchion to sheath with quiet hum that ends in a click. "Yes."

Ryoma chuckles. "I cannot say for certain I'd be alive if you had struck seriously." He bows his head. "You read the situation well, adapted quickly, and pushed forth without hesitance." His hand is held out as he stands. "I've seen all I need to."

"Everything within my power," Marth pledges as he shakes his hand, "will be used to protect your brother and our comrades."

A lively laugh draws his attention to their onlookers. Blonde hair large and bobbing with her restlessness, Elise speaks to a man with gray hair tied back in a wild ponytail. "Omigosh, he beat Ryoma! Isn't he like, just as strong as Xander?"

The man's crossed arms tuck further in as he turns farther from her. "Stronger. Not that it lessens the absurdity of it."

Marth nods to the restless girl, "Elise," and looks amongst those gathered, speaking from the heart, "Everyone. I understand family as an irreplaceable thing, and promise to do all that I can to assure your brother's safety. But to be blunt, I'm hoping he can watch my back all the same."

"You'll find no better ally for such," the samurai affirms. "Now, come. Let us take this time to better know each other. Everyone holds you to such esteem, yet I'm afraid I've not heard but what Corrin has told me."

The prince almost winces; instead, he smiles. "Of course."

* * *

He pulls the door with him as he enters his quarters, lets himself slide down against it once shut. The room is dark, day having passed some time ago. Though his stomach full and the company he just parted merry, his eyes glaze over. The moon isn't visible through the balcony doors, but the sky carries its influence in hues midnight-blue, as if brushstrokes.

It's a familiar color. A color he'd at times see around this hour, sprawled beneath and haloing a head rested atop his pillow. And he swears he sees it—sees it covering shoulders of a lithe figure beneath the sheets.

His hand covers his face, he blinks hard—and doesn't open his eyes.

Because he knows she'll be gone if he does.

* * *

**A.N.** Seems like our good pal Marth might be burdened by something more than just his renown. And he's about to have a lot more on his mind. Thanks for tuning in! Til next time...!


	3. World Full of Strangers - 2

**A.N.** Thanks for the reviews, favorites, and alert setups, readers! We're continuing on, this time with Marth's first ever mission in the world of Askr. He's been given a rather motley crew, but he's likely to feel most, if not all, bases are covered with this assortment of people.

But first…well, you should probably get used to a certain butler opening chapters. It just works so darn well, you know?

* * *

Part I

**~ World Full of Strangers ~**

**2**

* * *

He's falling…

Falling…

From a large cliff…

Oh yes, very large.

A tall, tall, very large cliff.

For such a cliff, it's a wonder how he hits the bottom within a second…

There's a throbbing pain on the back of Marth's head; it commands his hand to press against it. Eyes blurry upon opening take in black and silver that waver, overlap, waver, focus. He's staring up a Jakob…

"I did not take you as one so deplorable. Were you hoping for Felicia?"

…from between the butler's legs.

"…Huh?"

The butler steps over him and into the room. "Curious to why she's not here?"

"N-no, that's…"

Jakob pulls tight one glove and begins his routine.

Marth remembers sitting against the door, glances around the hallway he tumbled out into. "My apologies. It seems I fell asleep in a place most unsuitable."

The room hadn't even been used yesterday, yet the butler finds work. Does that mean he missed something? "Yes, you see," he says, collecting fallen pickings from a flower hung upside down near the bed, "I know quite well what an accident is." He walks past. "I will caution the queen of them to avoid your lecherous self."

"Please, I assure you I had no such intents!"

"It's today, is it not?"

"Huh? Pardon?"

"Perhaps that Hoshidan should have tested your brains rather than your brawn."

Marth rises. "Ah. The mission. I'll be counting on you out there."

The butler stops. "I beg your pardon?" His back remains turned.

"I think I know well enough that you're coming with us. You may not be going on orders, but I don't believe you can be convinced to leave your liege in anyone's care but your own. I…respect that."

Silver ponytail sways. "Quite the presumptuous one, aren't you?" And then he's walking away. "Unfortunately my services are needed elsewhere, so I haven't the slightest what you mean."

Marth watches his departure with a small smile.

* * *

Hair long and deep purple falls over her shoulder as she leans forward, hand on her hip and grin stretching her face. "Hiya, boss!" Her greeting has the rest of the group turning his way:

A strategist he's told is shrewd, and as capable with magic as he is decisive plans, Soren.

Prince of Nohr, brother to Hoshido, Corrin.

Huntress, and ever checking her bow, Rebecca.

And the one who's been most eager to spar with him, the one who he has not yet sparred with, and the one he's actually rather worried about sparring given her fanatical insistence of it—brushing her purple locks behind her shoulder, Mia claps. "We're ready to go!" Well, at least she's always in high spirits.

Marth holds up a hand to halt her. "Let us confirm once more our objective."

"Sure thing!"

Soren leads the recount. "We're pursuing a lead that Embla has been spotted near Vaskrheim. An otherwise relic, the place holds significance for it once enshrined Breidablik, the Summoner's weapon."

"And," Corrin interjects, "we're not to engage unless their numbers allow for it."

Rebecca finally finishes fumbling with her bow, but gives the string one last pluck for good measure. "Yep. Just some good ole tracking."

Another clap from Mia. "That's right, boss. We're good to go!"

Indeed. Reconnaissance at Vaskrheim summed it all up. Commander Anna worries that a prophecy may be unfolding, and if such is the case, they will need to act fast. They can engage if necessary, and will if the situation allows. There is no acting swifter than acting on time at hand, after all.

Marth nods. "All right. Let us—"

"Prince Marth!"

The prince turns over a shoulder just in time to see a scurrying maid trip, hop about on one foot, and somehow manage to keep her balance. She breathes a sigh of relief, pats down her pink fringe, clears her throat. "Prince Marth." In her hands is a flower.

Marth directs Corrin to sortie with the others and approaches "Felicia. Is something the matter?"

She calls out good luck to the exiting Nohr prince before shakes of her head send her ponytail into a frenzy. "No, no! Not at all. I uh," she thrusts the flower forward with both hands and bows, "was asked to give you this!"

Hues of lavender trace the edges of each petal, fading quickly to white near the center. "Thank you," he says, taking it. "May I inquire by whom?" Its scent fills him with vigor.

"Elise! Oh uh, I mean, Princess Elise!" Nervous laughter spills from the maid and her eyes dart to the left, to the right. After a sigh of relief, she smiles. "It's a gladiolus. They're symbols of strength and victory. I bet it's just the flower power you need for today, right?" Her fist bounces off his shoulder in a playful jab, and a sudden look of horror is left in the wake of her expression shattering. "Sorry."

He's admittedly more nervous than anything, and fails to laugh it off. "It's…all right. Might you thank Elise for me?"

"Yes!" She stiffens. "Yes."

"Please, be at ease. You needn't be so formal with me."

She's suddenly close and he's no time to pull away; cupping her mouth, she whispers, "It's Jakob…"

Jakob…? He supposes nothing more needs said. "I see. He is strict, isn't he?"

"You don't know the half of it! They made him head of housekeeping here and—!"

"Felicia, were my warnings not sufficient?"

A chill crawls up the maid's spine at the voice of the butler in question.

Warnings? Then Jakob actually…completely sullied Marth's name, didn't he? With a sigh, Marth waves and departs. Perhaps an explanation would be required later, but for now—he secures the flower in his satchel—he needs to see firsthand this enemy he's been brought here to fight.

* * *

Their travels south lead them deeply into a forest. Canopies overhead blot the sun and reduce its rays to the thinnest strands that dance over the underbrush. Travel on foot wouldn't be easy, not that horseback made things any quicker; nearly an hour ago, the path ended, and ever since they may well have been crawling at the pace they were going.

The horse beside his draws nearer; its rider, Corrin, keeps his gaze forward as he speaks, "I hear you've met my sister, Elise."

The closeness of the title and name brings a smile to his lips. "I have."

"I hope she hasn't been a bother."

"You needn't worry. She's been anything but."

Corrin pauses but a moment. "…That's good. It's just that she went on and on about having met you. She used to always talk of becoming a valiant hero, so people like you are…" He shakes his head. "It…made me realize I may have been too strong in my own forthcoming. Everyone here holds you in such high regard, the excitement took hold of me."

Marth chuckles under his breath as Jakob's words come to mind. "Think nothing of it."

Corrin watches him a while. "She tells me you bested brother Ryoma. That you were all…" a clearing of the throat, "_whoosh_, _boom_, _hiyaah~_." Corrin looks markedly embarrassed. "…In your defeating of him."

The Altean Prince lets loose a laugh. "I assure you it was nothing so grand. But yes, we sparred. I am certain I would never win a protracted battle against one so fierce, hence I staked it all on a decisive strike."

"How I wish to have seen it. Commander Anna requested my presence, and her explanations of the workings of this world, its lack of Dragon Veins, went on rather long."

"Dragon Veins?"

From the front of the company, Soren calls, "Marth, we've nearly arrived!"

The princes pull the reins of their horses in sync with the rest of the company.

Corrin leans over. "They're abound in my world. Special points that those with dragon's blood can command to draw power from the land, or even shape it anew."

Marth wears his shock well. Dismounting his horse, the others follow. "We will travel the remainder on foot. Tie the horses."

The temple is much as Anna described. A tall, decrepit shrine engulfed by and in the depths of the forest. Enwreathed by the surrounding foliage, vines draping its cracked and crumbling walls, it appears as if untouched by man for hundreds of years. The only clearing since they'd entered the forest makes up the front of the temple, and it is there that horses and an escort of guards are spotted.

Marth and company conceal themselves atop the overlooking cliff, the former pressing himself to a tree nearest its edge. Corrin across from him is suddenly animated, as out of the temple marches "Xander…"

The tall blonde man accompanies a much smaller woman—perhaps even a girl. "And the Emblian Princess," Marth deduces. She is helped onto her horse by Xander, before he too climbs atop and they gallop into the veil of forest. The escort follows, and…

From Mia comes a chipper scoff. "They've left?"

Marth raises a hand to still the others' shuffling. Their gazes join his on the temple. Though they can't see the front clearly from this angle…

No signs of movement. No guards seemingly left behind. No—

A head of green steps from beyond the low wall of the stairs, surveys the area.

The company turns away and hides. Marth grimaces. "That's Merric. But how?"

He knows the question is naïve. Commander Anna explained thoroughly the situation in the days after his arrival. Their side isn't the only one summoning assistance from other worlds. But to think a close friend would…

A vigorous shake of the head. No. He pledged his aid to this cause and has his orders. He would simply have to avoid hurting his friend. Perhaps, even, his voice could reach him!

"Merric?" Soren inquires.

Marth nods. "A…skilled sorcerer of the wind. If you would allow me to engage him, I believe he will be no trouble."

Soren exchanges a glance with Corrin. "And are those your orders…?"

The Altean Prince winces. "Forgive me. My choice of words was poor. I shall handle Merric. But let us lie in wait a while longer. We should identify their numbers to our best ability before choosing to engage."

Rebecca appears from brush, prompting wonder from the others as to when she had left. "Think we can get down from here," she says, gesturing her head towards where she'd emerged. "Not much a path, but brush does thin that way. Goes all 'round to the front of the shrine."

"Thank you, Rebecca. We move soon."

Soon indeed. Lying in wait proved fruitless beyond spotting a single enemy. Rebecca's discovery lent itself well to her skills as a huntress, minimized their stirring of the environment, and led them to precisely where she told. Huddled in cover just within the shroud of foliage, Marth raises a hand, raises three fingers.

That becomes two fingers.

That becomes one finger.

An arrow soars from the forest along with the Altean Prince. "Merric!"

The mage whirls around in alarm, pages of tome flipping as spell conjures. Wind snaps the arrow in two, blows it skyward, and a pulse sent the way of the prince is evaded by both him and the mercenary that leans forward in her charge to let it pass overhead.

From the shrine pours soldiers—soldiers forced back into its cover from arrows and magic; those that slip through the barrage are met with a resolute blade, her long locks swaying from the motions of swing after relentless swing.

Marth lowers his sword from affront his friend. "Merric, you must fight it! Tell me, what is Embla doing here?"

The mage holds forth his glowing tome. "My friend, forgive me. I've no will of my own! You must strike me down!" A tempest swells outward from the mage.

Marth dives, rolls, rises to a knee. His hand presses to his shoulder stained red and he winces; though he refuses to look, the gashes he sees left in the trees tell enough of his wound. Gritting teeth, he pushes forward and slashes his friend. A clean cut along the side, Marth grimaces as much as the mage from the red streaming down the blade. Flipping his grip, the prince raises high his sword for a crushing blow.

But the winds prevent him from bringing his sword down, and he instead finds himself stumbling back under threat of another spell. The winds Merric sends forth are met with opposing ones; swept into a cyclone, the winds rise before dispersing. It's this opening that Marth uses. Hand joining his other on Falchion's hilt, he steps forward and slams the pommel into the head of his friend.

Merric hits the ground on his back.

And then a blinding flash.

Something hits him and sends him into a tumble. Rear scrapes the ground until an abrupt impact with a tree. His agony escapes in coughs, blurry vision taking in what appears to be shimmering crystals near the shrine. Bright, golden like the sun, and dissipating.

"Sorry, boss…" In his arms is Mia. Her skin is burned and her eyes wander, look, search, fixating on nothing. "That's you, right boss?" Her hand reaches away from him.

"Mia, what happened?"

Her chuckle comes out as a cough and she lets her hand fall. "Not sure where she came from."

"She?" His vision returns fully with a long blink. Standing where the shimmering crystals were, a woman garbed in pink. Her complexion is fair, yet kissed by the sun, and flowing brown locks allow only a glimpse of the green gem worn on her head. "Linde…!"

"Ah, so you know her too?" The mercenary hisses in pain. "Tough luck…"

Rebecca appears from the trees. "What was that?"

"Linde," the prince replies. "She wields formidable magic. Please, take Mia and flee. She is badly injured."

There's obvious hesitance from both women, but Rebecca obliges.

His remaining allies have stepped onto the battlefield. Pushing from the tree, Marth joins them.

Linde remains atop the stairs, on either side a pair of soldiers with swords. Outnumbered nearly by double would make the monumental task of getting close to her even more so. But they'd have to try. If they could create the opening, he could overpower and subdue her, much like Merric. He could save her.

"Corrin, stay close. Soren will use his magic to scatter them, but we mustn't allow her to do the same to us." He turns to the mage in question to see him biting his thumb, brow furrowed in thought. "I ask a great deal of you. Will you be all right on your own?"

"Her magic hits a wide area. Once close, you'll actually be out of range, lest she's foolish. Since all of us sticking together is a death wish…" he sighs. "I'll be fine."

"Wait," Corrin interjects. "Aren't we all together now?"

It's like the sound of chimes in wind, the gathering of mana overhead. Marth grabs Corrin by the arm and breaks into a full run; their legs are swept out by the force of an explosion, and while their tumble is far from graceful, they manage to come out on their knees—held upright by blades anchored in dirt.

"Corrin!" Marth rushes, sword trailing his steps and ally doing the same. Wind magic intercepts an incoming foe, another is dispatched by the prince. Third's swing is evaded, a slash of his own tearing through the soldier's chainmail and severing flesh over the elbow. Marth sidesteps and pushes off the soldier, hears a grunt from a finishing blow dealt by Corrin.

Linde's eyes follow them, but her magic strikes at the mage sending the wind into a frenzy.

Falchion meets steel, the fourth bearing down fiercely. At sight of another flash, at hearing of another crystalline explosion, the prince forces himself around his opponent; the blow against the back is in tandem with the one from the front, and the soldier collapses to his knees when they withdraw their blades—falls face first to the ground.

Charge resumes and Marth readies his sword for a broadside swing. Her feet are planted, Aura is open and its pages flipping on their own, and she's closer, closer, and closer yet.

The pained expression—he sees it clearly, can read the apology she mouths.

"Marth!"

Over his shoulder, he sees the battlefield alight in gold. Corrin had been intercepted, Soren's magic failing to fell the first—a literal second wind closing in to change that. The gold aura intensifies, its crystalline hum becoming a piercing screech.

And it's as he readies a broadside swing that a fifth enemy bears down on him, deadlocks him with axe hammering down on sword. And it matters not that the soldier falls limp from throwing knives piercing his back: There would be no time for any of them. The precious mere seconds he needed are gone. All he can do is push forward with a heavy step, close his eyes, breathe…

After a quarter turn of the blade…

He swings.

The light of day returns. Soren's magic tears into the soldier deadlocking Corrin, allowing the latter to throw off, and deal a finishing blow, to the man. The two remain vigilant; that ends when they spot the prince.

Red runs down Falchion. His grip on the blade is weak, but not his embrace of the woman fallen against him. Trembling legs fail her, and he follows her to the ground. "Linde, I…" He had to be sure it would reach, had to be sure it would stop her, but this…! His eyes snap shut at sight of his garments darkening from her blood.

Her fists strike at him weakly. "This power…it's terrible. I'm conscious. I'm…aware of it all. Yet I, I, I can't stop myself." Such small hands, that wield miraculous power, are barely felt as she pounds, hits, grasps. "Even now…it forces…upon the enemies of the caster…no matter if I…" She falls limp and he embraces tighter. "…Prince Marth. We were…all three…Merric and I and…you." Her breath, raspy, ceases with a murmur: "…Finally." With gritting teeth, he chokes back his emotions and guides her head to rest upon his shoulder.

From the shrine a light like the magic that'd illuminated the battle bursts forth. And much the same, it suddenly is gone. Footsteps echo from the chamber; a man emerges, one hand on the low wall of the stairs and the other blocking the noontime sun from his eyes. Ends of a red headband flutter in the breeze, and trained eyes widen in alarm at the scene.

He draws from his back a heavy sword—a yellow blade scarred from countless battles.

"Ike…?"

The man lowers his weapon, looks with confusion upon the long-haired mage. "Soren?" His eyes seem unable to accept something about the man standing before him. "You're…" eyes dart around, "Where is this?"

"That's a long story I'm afraid will have to wait. We could use your help."

If there's one thing he needs not be filled in on, it's that. He sees well enough on his own the aftermath of their struggle, as well as what it cost them.

* * *

**A.N.** Oh yes: a lot happened, didn't it? Welcome, one and all, to the not-so-pretty world of Askr! Or, at least, what I feel it would be like without all the sugarcoating the mobile game does. Not that I dislike that sugarcoating. But just a different take.

We'll wrap up this first part with the next chapter. See you all there! And, always and forever shall be my wish: hope you've enjoyed.


	4. World Full of Strangers - 3

**A.N.** Just when I tell you to get used to Jakob opening chapters, we have one he doesn't open. But he will be back. With a vengeance, of course. Because why come back without one?

But for now, we've a flustered Marth who wants answers.

* * *

Part I

**~ World Full of Strangers ~**

**3**

* * *

Marth holds esteem for being a lot of things, but beaten and battered and fatigued are not any of them. He pushes through the door of the commander's room, brings it to a halt just before it slams into the wall.

Inside is a trio—no, there's a fourth. The commander, Anna; the Askr siblings; a knight wise in his years, white hair thin and unkempt. Very reminiscent of Jagen.

Marth takes in the collective stare of the trio huddled around a desk. The light of the room is low, flickering flame adding to subtle hues of twilight coming in through the narrow ornate window stretching the height of the wall. "…Forgive my intrusion." There are scrolls on the table. Maps and documents. "But I require a word, if you've time." Not that he would be leaving without it. "I can wait outside if you haven't a moment, yet."

The siblings glance at one another, the usual peppy features of the princess dullen by concern. "Uh, sure. We have time."

Her brother nods, carries on for her. "Prince Marth, is something the matter?"

He remains at the door. "Upon my arrival, you explained the circumstances of this world. Of the warring kingdoms of Askr and Embla. You showed me the very tool that brought me here. I was introduced to many new comrades. But you failed to mention how one might return home."

Sharena steps around the table, worry on her face. "Are you leaving us so soon?"

The rest of the room is quiet, three pairs of eyes with the same plea watching him. Leave? Return home? He only just now thought of that. But why? …An odd feeling. Why did he only _just now_ think of that?

Wincing, he presses a hand to his head. He did pledge himself to the cause of this world. Quite adamantly, as a matter of fact. And that was because… But to have cut down a friend…

He runs his hand down his face. "No…I just…"

Anna answers, "There's a way, of course. That which we summon can be sent back. Well, we don't know for certain if it sends you back to where you're from. Nobody has taken that risk. It's understandable. We're looking for another way."

Dread overcomes him. There is no guarantee? He may choose to return home and end up somewhere else? That is not choosing at all! "Then all these people…" A pain shoots through his head and he clutches it. "Forgive me. I am still shaken from the mission. There were people I know…"

Alfonse turns away. "Prince Marth…" The blood on the prince's clothes tells enough of what he'd been forced to do.

"Merric," Marth murmurs. His steadfast gaze returns. "Is there any way to help him? We brought him back, and he's unconscious, but there's no way of knowing if that magic is still controlling him."

Anna pushes between the siblings, approaches the battered prince. "Where is he?"

"We were met by others at the gate. I asked that they to take him to the infirmary."

She turns to the old knight. "Gunter, I need a guard there, stat."

With a bow of his head, the knight takes his leave.

Anna walks around the table and places her hands on the documents. "Helping him isn't so simple. When the opportunity arises, we send those we capture back. But again, there's no guarantee they return to their worlds, or if it even removes the spell." She collects the parchments into a stack. "But they should be fine even if it isn't removed. How it works, we don't know, but somehow it forces them to target those aligned with Askr. So, if they're sent to a world without Askr…" Despite the ridiculousness, the rest of her logic went without saying. "They're normal otherwise."

Marth exhales slowly. "He'll be sent back, then."

"Once he's conscious."

Marth takes his leave much like the older knight, but with haste in his steps.

* * *

The infirmary had been prepped for their return. A larger room towards the heart of the castle, it appears to have been repurposed for its current use. Perhaps a ballroom at one point. An audience chamber, even. On entering, he sees the mercenary sleeping on a cot. Merric must also be—

"H-hello." Hair short and pink, the young woman stammers in her greeting. She doesn't meet his eyes. "Th-that looks bad. Please, um, this way." But he's certain it isn't because she's fixated on the wound.

A whirlwind of blonde swoops in and takes his arm. "Hold up!" Elise demands. "I got this one." She pulls him along with a cheery, "Right this way, Mister Marth," sits him on a cot, and pulls the curtain. "Oh, she's right! That looks bad. Come-on. Armor off. Let's get you fixed up!"

She scurries through the curtain while he obliges, returning with a washcloth and basin. "Someone got you pretty good, huh?"

The cool cloth brings more discomfort than relief, but he simply closes his eyes. "Indeed. Things did not go quite as planned." He sighs, sees flashes of red spilling from…and streaming down Falchion. "But I kept my promise. Your brother is safe."

The cloth stops. He imagines the news has her smiling radiantly. Like the sun when they met just days ago. "It must have been a burden. That promise. Is that what caused this?"

"…I'm afraid I'm not much for chatting right now."

"Ah. Sorry."

Water splashes to the basin from the wrung cloth. When next it touches his skin, there's a soothing gentleness to its slow glide around his wound. An energy he's used to feeling as warmth spreads through him like a chill, refreshing as if a cold drink on a hot day. Senses normally lax while being healed are instead jolted, and he chides himself in his newfound alertness. "…I'm told you wish to be a hero."

Her giggle is soft. "Didn't I already tell you that I am one?"

"That is true. As a healer, you save people. You could say that anyone those people go on to help, you also help."

"That's a lot of people." She lays the cloth in the basin. Her hands hover over what remains of his wound. "But I guess it goes both ways. What if those people do bad things?"

"I don't believe it carries such polarity. The act of saving someone itself is never…"

She leans closer. "Hm?" Lavender gaze encompassing his, he turns away.

"…I would never believe the act itself bad. Perhaps there may have been another way, and if only there were time—!"

"Hey." She looks up at him, having leaned over to keep his gaze. "You okay?"

"…I am," he answers, unable to look away a second time. Her head tilts, hair sways. "You've given me something new to think over. Thank you."

"Sure!" There's the smile he imagined. "But don't think too hard!"

It's infectious—to the point that he, too, nearly smiles. "I'm glad to have run into you. Had there been more fanfare, more inquiries of deeds, or even talk about this mission, I… "

Bandages are brought out. She lifts his arm to wrap them underneath. "I kinda feel you're burnt out with all that, you know? Like how I'm tired of everyone treating me like a kid." She huffs. "It's just how I am. I might have grown up, but does that mean I have to get stuffy and boring?"

He chuckles. "No, not at all. Things are always more comfortable with someone like you around. I would think others are…perhaps envious of your honesty towards yourself."

Red takes to her cheeks. "Hah, you wouldn't be one of them, would you?"

"I worry that I am."

"Oh."

"…Is something the matter?"

Jolting, she lets out a, "Nope!" and panics upon plopping her hand right onto the edge of the basin, flipping it and sending water everywhere. "Ah, uh, just fine! You're good to go!" Water trails down the thumbs-up she gives; she promptly shakes her hand dry—flings water right onto her patient's face. "Sorry!"

"It's no problem," he assures. The blanket of the cot serves as a towel, and after drying his face, he helps her with the spill. It's only after he finishes that he realizes his shoulder moves without pain. No trace of a wound remains. "Elise, the wound…"

"Hm? Oh, yeah. See?" She pats it twice. "Good to go!"

"But there's no scar. It's like it never existed."

"Well I wouldn't be doing my job if there was, right?"

"But even the best in…" he looks her head to toe, "…you're so young, and yet…"

"Hey!" Her cheeks puff. "I did just say I'm all grown up."

He stumbles back, bows his head. "Forgive me. I'm simply impressed. You've the skill of someone far beyond both our years. How did you learn so quickly?"

Collecting the basin and cloth, she takes his torn shirt as well. "There was a really long war. And a lot of people kept getting hurt. Um, I can mend this, if you want." Glum appears foreign on her face.

"Thank you, but you needn't mind." He rolls his shoulder and pats it, twice. "You've done so much already."

Her despondence grows, head shaking. "It's no trouble. I know it's just a shirt, but you came here with this, right? This place is full of strangers. Something actually from home is comforting."

Something actually from home…strangers…

"…Very well. You may drop it off in my quarters when you've finished. And thank you, again. I feel I should repay this debt—"

Her shaking head, face alight with a smile as it should be, quiets him. "You do so much for everyone. Let someone do something for you, okay? No paybacks."

It's small—only a tugging of the corners—but he smiles.

* * *

He guides the door shut to a soft _click_. Forehead rests on it for but a moment before he turns around to face the blackness of the room. Outside, overcast blots the moon. No hues of blue reach him. He sits against the bed rather than on it, cranes his neck.

The ceiling is dark—a blank canvas for his thoughts to etch into. Closing his eyes, he tries to not think too hard.

But he only finds himself wondering why it is that's so difficult.

* * *

**A.N.** Thus, we close the curtain on Part I: World Full of Strangers.

Marth's got a lot on his plate. Perhaps it's time to throw him a bone, yeah? Let's do that in…

**Part II: Old Friends, New Flames**

Sounds like things might get spicy, eh? Eh?

Toodles til then!


End file.
